


And The Walls Kept Tumbling Down

by a_quirk_called_insanity



Series: We Pick Ourselves Undone [2]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alcohol, Angst, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes-centric, Gun Violence, M/M, Memory Loss, Minor Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Walmart, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-15 03:03:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7203878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_quirk_called_insanity/pseuds/a_quirk_called_insanity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winter Soldier is struggling to figure out where Bucky stops and Hydra starts. Alone and desperate, he tries to untangle the mess inside his mind himself.</p>
<p>Set after Winter Soldier. Not Civil War compliant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone!  
> So, I'm back (finally) and this time with a plan! I actually have an idea now of where I'm going with this. Thank you so much for all the kudos on the previous installment.  
> The title doesn't belong to me. It's from the song Pompeii by Bastille.  
> If you haven't already read it, there's a one-shot in this series that takes place before this, and I highly recommend you read it first. It's called The Night Goes On As I'm Fading Away, and although it's not necessary, this might make a bit more sense if you do read it.  
> TRIGGER WARNINGS for minor, non-graphic gun violence, a very brief amount of non-con (about one sentence), and a bit of cursing. Please let me know if I need to tag/warn about anything else! Rating may go up as this story progresses, so please check the notes at the beginning of each chapter for TWs.  
> Without further ado, here it is!

It was approximately 23 hours later when The Soldier’s bike began to sputter and growl. He knew it wasn’t out of gas; he’d just filled it up a few miles back. Which meant something was wrong with the motorcycle. He pushed down the frustration curling in his gut and sighed. The Soldier could kill someone almost a thousand ways. He could shoot with perfect aim even when falling from a building or being beat senseless. He could drag a super soldier out of a river using only one arm. What he couldn’t do, however, was fix a motorcycle. He drove through the bustling city for a few more minutes until he found a semi-concealed parking lot. The Soldier knew the bike would eventually be found, especially if the woman he stole it from reported it missing, so he climbed off and quickly wiped off everything he had touched. The Soldier felt a flicker of regret as he walked away from the bike. Riding it had left him with a strange sense of déjà vu, and he’d been able to control it with ease. He would have preferred to keep using it until it could no longer move, but he supposed it wasn’t his to begin with, and leaving it for its original owner seemed like the morally correct option, even if it wasn’t in the best condition.

The Soldier knew he would need a new method of transportation eventually, but every time he stole something, it increased the risk of being caught or someone tracking him down. He couldn’t live like this forever. There were two options he could see: leave the country and establish a cover in one of the few places he wasn’t a fugitive, or let himself be found. See Steve again. Be put on trial for his many crimes. From a tactical standpoint, one option as clearly better. If he left, there would be less chance of Hydra hunting him down. Here in America, he was more vulnerable to Them. They were well-established in the states. Still…

The Soldier had been slowly regaining his memories, but only in snatches. They were all tangled together so thoroughly that trying to distinguish them from each other left him with a migraine. He couldn’t even tell which were real and which ones were dreams. Some, he had been able to verify. Falling off the train. Losing his arm. Waking up with a new and improved (or more terrible and harsh and not-at-all-human) arm. Watching targets crumple when he put a bullet through their head. (It had taken lots of research to confirm these memories, and a part of him still wished he hadn’t.) Steve, however, was more complicated. He felt a pull towards him, a sort of… longing. He didn’t know who was the one experiencing that- Bucky or The Soldier. Steve would know which of his memories were real. Steve held all the answers. Still, he couldn’t return to him. He just couldn’t.

He cringed as soon as he emerged onto the back street. The building directly across was lit with colorful fluorescent lights and loud, upbeat music was spilling out of the open doors. People were going in and out, and the streets and sidewalks were packed, despite the late time. He knew he was in Las Vegas, the city that supposedly never slept, but he hadn’t quite processed what it meant until that moment.

The Soldier stepped out into the crowds and let the natural tide sweep him up, leading him to hell-knows-where. The constant noise around him was grating, and every time someone bumped into him, he resisted the urge to punch them. It was impossible to assess each and every person around him. It left him tense and anxious, and it was a breath of fresh air when he finally reached an emptier area. He adjusted his hat and pulled off the glove covering his Other Hand, opting to simply hide it in his jacket pocket until he reached an area he felt secure in again. He continued to walk down block after block, not knowing where he was going, just that he had to keep moving. He knew he’d eventually have to stop and rest- it had been 65 days since his last wipe and even longer since cryofreeze, and he’d only slept for a few hours here and there.

Just as he rounded the corner, deciding he would look out for lodging, The Soldier heard a sound that sent a shiver down his spine. A scream. Not a drunken yell, or a shriek of excitement, but a scream of terror. He had heard enough of those to recognize it. His feet began to move on autopilot to the source of the noise.

Three men and a woman were gathered at the very back of a dark, partially hidden alley. One of the men was pinning the woman to the wall and groping her, making The Soldier’s stomach twist uncomfortably. The second was holding a gun to her head, which explained her lack of resistance. The third was rifling through her purse a little ways away. Something in his gut snapped, unleashing a wave of red that clouded his vision. The Soldier had vanished and in his place stood The Weapon. It lunged at the men and calmly went through motions it had repeated for years until they were perfected- punching and throwing and shooting and ducking. It wasn’t even paying attention to what it was doing, just that it had done it a thousand times.

A minute later, The Weapon stopped and The Soldier re-emerged, barely out of breath. It had been terrifying to fully feel his brain completely switch modes like that, to have him lose control so suddenly, and it left him dizzy and disoriented. He surveyed the scene around him, quietly cursing in Russian as he did. All three men had taken a severe beating, evidenced by the blood on their clothes and slowly-forming bruises. The first was weakly crying out as he struggled to apply pressure to the gunshot wound on his leg. The second was unconscious, with a trail of blood running down the side of his face and dripping onto the filthy ground. The third was clutching his ribs as he leaned on the alley wall, a black eye already appearing. He shut his eyes tightly to block out the carnage around him. He had done that. He had been the one to hurt all of them. He stared down at his hands. His Other Hand was still clutching the gun, and his right hand was scraped and bloodied. It wasn’t until he anxiously ran his fingers through his hair that he noticed how badly his hand was shaking.

The Soldier glanced up. His eyes immediately landed on the woman, who was staring at him with puffy, tear-stained eyes full of shock and fear. He carefully backed away from her until he reached where her purse was lying. He gathered up its contents with shaking hands, and very slowly brought it back over to the woman. When he held it out to her, she flinched away. He couldn’t say he blamed her.

“Take it,” he whispered. “Take it and call 911. You can blame it all on me. They’ll know you didn’t shoot him if they test your hands for gun residue.”

“They- they- they could’ve killed me,” she stammered. “You saved me. Can I at least know your name?”

The Soldier paused for a moment. He’d already stolen Bucky’s face, Bucky’s past. He didn’t want to steal the man’s name, too. 

“Jamie,” he finally answered, and it felt strange on his tongue. Foreign, but not wrong. Just… strange. “And I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-” he gestured vaguely at the three incapacitated men behind them, and it wasn’t until she cringed that he realized he’d gestured with the hand still holding the gun. He quickly dropped it and watched as she relaxed slightly. “I can call, if you want.” When she didn’t respond, he fished her phone out of her purse and handed her the purse. He dialed 911 with his Other Hand, not trusting his trembling hand to press the buttons. 

“911, what’s your emergency?” a crisp female voice immediately recited.

Jamie quickly jogged to the edge of the alley so he could see the street signs. “I’m on East Carson Avenue. Three men were robbing a woman at gunpoint so I intervened. One is unconscious with a probable head injury, one has an injured rib, and the other got shot in the leg. They’ll need an ambulance, and then they’ll need to be arrested.”

“Dispatching police and an ambulance now,” she said. “Are you and the woman both alright?”

“She’s okay, I think,” he replied, glancing over at the woman, who nodded in affirmation. 

“Alright, if you could both remain where you are until the police arrive, that would be-” Jamie hung up and handed the phone back to the woman.

“Sorry, again,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. He paused for a second before reaching into his jacket pocket and withdrawing a pocket knife. He dropped it into her purse, which she was still holding tenderly as if she was scared it would blow up. “Keep track of that, just in case.” He was already leaving as he called back over his shoulder, “And buy some goddamned pepper spray or somethin’.”  
And then he once more disappeared into the night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Sorry for the wait, my school year is finally coming to a close and I've been frantically cramming for finals. Anyway, here it is! Hope you enjoy!  
> WARNINGS: non-graphic mentions of deaths, mild violence, PTSD, a teensy bit of language. Please always read chapter warnings, they'll change for each specific chapter.

The Soldier found himself perched on the fire escape, peering through the scope of a rifle. It was watching a man sitting down to dinner with his wife and four young children. He was discussing something with his wife, and by the smiles on both of their faces, it was something good. One of the kids said something and all of them laughed. They were all having such a nice dinner. _Not for much longer,_ it thought, and felt a pull at its gut at the sentiment. It fiddled with the trigger for a second before taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly. Everything was in position.

Calmly and with an exactness achieved through years of training,The Soldier pulled the trigger six times. Six targets. Six bullets. Six deaths. The window shattered completely, but no alarms went off. It was too easy. It watched as each body dropped, making sure there were no survivors. As it glanced over at the father, the man’s face morphed until it found itself watching a dying Steve instead.

“Bucky,” Steve called weakly, and The Soldier could just hear him through the demolished window. “Why’d you do that? Why did you kill me? I thought we were friends.”

“No,” it whispered, staring down in horror. “No no nonononono-”

Suddenly, he was falling, falling in slow motion through the biting wind and flurries of snow. He was screaming, calling out. He could see Steve above him, face full of guilt and heartbreak, and three words forming on his lips, and all Bucky could feel was regret, regret that in his last moments he still couldn’t bring himself to say those three simple words and-

Jamie jerked upright, panting and flailing and screaming for Steve. His heart was beating so quickly he feared it would explode and his skin was damp with sweat. It took him a moment to reorient himself. He wasn’t falling; he was in the bed at the motel room he’d rented just a few hour ago. He forced himself to take a deep breath, but his lungs were refusing to expand. His heart rate increased even more as he struggled to draw in oxygen, gripping the bed frame as hard as he could. He had finally regained his breath when the wood he was gripping snapped loudly like a gunshot and sent him into another panic attack. 

When he was finally calm and composed, Jamie took a shuddering breath and curled into himself. Every time he had tried to sleep since he escaped Hydra, he had been bombarded with nightmares. He almost wished to be taken back purely for the silence and dreamlessness of cryo sleep. He could still see the dead eyes of the children and the look of utter betrayal on Steve’s face as his life left him, Steve’s expression as Bucky fell and his own realization that he’d never see him again. He shut his eyes but that only enhanced the image, and he found himself staring at Steve’s mouth, which was trying to tell him something, but it was blurry and as he tried to concentrate, it drifted further and further away. His shoulders shook as he let out a sob, and then another. The floodgates opened and he no longer could stop the tears as they streamed down his face. What kind of person would kill innocent children? What kind of person would murder hundreds of people? Would try to kill his best friend as well? What kind of person did that? _The bad kind,_ his thoughts whispered. _The wicked kind. Monsters._

Jamie cried until no more tears would fall, ignoring the voices in his mind ordering him to get a _hold of yourself, Soldier, just pull the fuckin’ trigger, unless you want to explain to Him how you failed your mission, you want to see what real pain is? Come over here and I’ll show you, you sonuvabitch-_ The harsh words were cut off by a knocking at his door. He jumped and his hand immediately shot out and wrapped itself around the knife he’d left on the bedside table. Jamie held it out in front of him as he crept towards the door, flinching when there was another knock. He pressed himself against the door and peered through the peephole, and was greeted by the sight of a young man standing anxiously on the other side. He was in his pajamas, which didn’t have pockets, so it was easier to check for signs of concealed weapons. The man didn’t look like HYDRA either, so Jamie tentatively opened the door, holding the knife behind his back.

“Oh, good,” the young man breathed a sigh of relief as soon as his eyes landed on Jamie. “I’m sorry, I had heard screaming and at first I thought it was- other things-” he blushed and Jamie frowned, trying to discern what he had been implying. “But then there was something that sounded a lot like a gunshot and I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” He laughed uncomfortably. “Sorry for bothering you.” He glanced down and Jamie watched his eyes lock on his Other Arm instead, jaw dropping at the glint of metal.

“Everything’s fine,” he replied tersely. “Thanks,” he added as an afterthought before shutting the door. He returned to the bed and closed his eyes, but he was too on edge to sleep after the possible threat. The only way for him to sleep was when he was bone-tired, but even then he was usually woken by graphic memories in the form of nightmares. His body wasn’t used to sleeping- there had been unconsciousness caused by Wipes and Calibration, and he had spent thousands of days in Cryo, but that was it. Sleep had never been a choice because it was never an option. Sleep was foreign and odd and left him disoriented and vulnerable to attack. Still, he had grown to understand how sleep helps him stay alert during the day, and makes his jumbled, fried brain a little clearer, just like food and water. 

Jamie finally gave up on more sleep and packed his few belongings into the many pockets of his worn, tattered army jacket. He had stolen it from Salvation Army, and had pushed down the guilt with the reminder that it was meant for homeless people, and he was officially without a home. He left his second-to-last wad of cash on the desk near the door. Then he snuck out into the night and hotwired an old gray truck parked a few blocks down from the motel. There was some sort of built-in computer system, but he couldn’t figure out how to work it, so he ignored it as he drove out of the small town and onto the highway just as the sun started to rise. He drove for a few hours more before getting back off the highway and searching for an ATM. Jamie finally found one and had just broken in when he heard a man shout behind him.

“Drop the money and put your hands where I can see ‘em!” he ordered, and Jamie swore softly in Russian. The police. This wasn’t good. When all the SHIELD and HYDRA files went viral, his did too. They would look into him and, when they found nothing, they would search further and find out just who he was. HYDRA would be on the lookout for any signs of him, and when They found out that the police station was holding him, They would come to take him back. He couldn’t go back. He couldn’t let himself be captured. Jamie refused to be taken prisoner without a fight. He could feel The Weapon rear its head, but Jamie pushed it down. That wasn’t what he needed right now. The Weapon wouldn’t hesitate to kill both of them (don’t leave witnesses _no survivors no survivors kill every last one of them_ ) but if Jamie killed two cops, he would become more of a priority than a simple car thief and ATM robber. 

Jamie straightened, his back going rigid and muscles tightening. His jaw locked and his brain sharpened as adrenaline kicked in. With the agility and precision of a bird descending upon its prey, he leapt towards the first officer and disarmed him within seconds, using the officer’s shock to his advantage. He knocked the man out with his own gun and eased him to the ground just as he heard the second officer radio in for backup. He avoided every shot she fired at him, and when he finally reached her, he deflected every one of her attacks. She was skilled in hand-to-hand, but he had decades of practice, so he quickly disarmed her and knocked her out as well, catching her as she fell and laying herdown gently. He knew that simply knocking them out instead of killing them would leave behind two eyewitnesses, but he didn’t want to kill them. They were just doing their job. 

Jamie cursed again, this time in French. Now, not only was he a fugitive from various government intelligence agencies, top secret organizations, and a fuckton of countries, but the police would be chasing him too. And if HYDRA caught wind of the Winter Soldier taking out two cops in De Moines, they would know not only that he was still in the states, but an approximate radius of where he was. If they tracked him down… Jamie shivered at the thought. He could never do that again. Not ever. 

With his mind made up, Jamie walked for a few more blocks, abandoning the truck in exchange for an old mini van with no sign of a GPS tracking system that could alert the cops again. With a mind clearer than it had been all week, Jamie drove off, and the city of De Moines never saw him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there it is! Please leave feedback, it really helps and it makes me super happy too! :D Thank you so much, and have a wonderful day!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter of the second part of the series, but fret not! A third part will soon be coming your way!  
> WARNINGS: violence, gun violence, alcohol abuse, graphic descriptions of injuries.  
> Enjoy!

It was a week later and Jamie found himself in Cleveland, once again desperate for sleep. He had been going nonstop since his run-in with the police, and he needed rest. Not wanting a repeat of last time he checked into a motel, Jamie chose instead to go up on the roof of an older brick apartment building, one with roof access, which meant it had a few benches and plants. He claimed one of the benches and curled up on it, cushioning his head with his army jacket. It was a warm night and he could see the stars from his position. The hubbub of the city around him was enough to lull him asleep, and as he drifted off, he felt the faintest of smiles tug at his lips, brought on by the peacefulness of the moment.

* * * * * * * * * *

Jamie was flying off the bench before he could even process what was happening, a guttural cry ripped from his mouth as he tackled the man hiding in the shadows of the apartment complex roof. He could hear the man's grunt as his head made contact with the filthy cement, and Jamie quickly pinned him down, using extra strength from his Other Hand to keep the much larger man under him.

"Soldier," the man rasped as Jamie grabbed his neck. "This is Agent Markus. Stand down. We've been sent to retrieve you." Jamie inwardly screamed. HYDRA had found him again. He would need to leave, need to get on a plane to Russia and jump out halfway through the flight, need to escape and never look back. He would do whatever it took to protect himself from Them.

"Are you hydra?" Jamie demanded. "Who do you work for? Where are they? How did you find me?"

"I work for the same people you do," he replied smoothly, despite the hand around his neck. "Obey my orders, Soldier. Stand down. I'll take you back to where you belong."

"Rumlow's dead," Jamie growled. "I don't work for anyone. Now either answer my questions, or I'll make you." He didn’t want to torture anyone, but this agent was HYDRA and he had been sent to bring Jamie back to hell, so he wouldn’t feel any pity if he had to make the man scream. 

"I don't believe you," Markus hissed. "Look at you. Your hand's shaking. Stand down, Soldier, or I'LL make YOU." 

Jamie didn't let go. In fact, he gripped Markus' neck harder as his Other Hand swung around and connected hard with Markus' face. He grunted again, and spit out a mouthful of blood. Jamie punched him again, this time harder, and heard the man’s soft cry as his jaw cracked.

"If that's how you want to play it," Markus snarled, voice laced with pain as his face began to swell. "Go!"

Suddenly, there was commotion all around him as dozens of grappling hooks attached to the edges of the roof, bringing dozens of agents with them, all heavily armed and decked out in Kevlar. Every gun was trained on him.

"You've disobeyed orders," a cold voice said, and Jamie glanced around in a desperate attempt to locate who had spoken. He recognized that voice. It sent a shiver down his spine, and he bit his cheek to stop his teeth from chattering at the onslaught of memories, memories of cold and pain and that voice barking at him as he fought against his restraints. "Surrender now, Soldier, and I might be lenient."

Jamie knew if he tried to attack, they would easily overpower him. He was good, but they had sheer numbers. Him against at least forty heavily-armed and trained agents were not odds he liked. He bowed his head in a sign of submission and quickly checked Markus. He had passed out, but Jamie could still detect a pulse. He slackened his grip and slumped his shoulders enough for it to look like he was preparing to give in, and was rewarded with the sound of some of the guns being lowered. Those were probably the ones with real bullets. He guessed the rest were tranquilizers. Without any change in body language, he took a deep breath and jumped up, slamming Markus’s limp body into the nearest agent, plowing through the first two. His senses were alive with adrenaline, and he could hear the discharge of guns behind him. Reflexes kicked in and he spun the nearest agent around, hearing their cries as the bullets bounced off the Kevlar but still pierced his arms. His theory was correct as the agent’s head drooped from the sedatives. Jamie wrenched the gun out of his hands, glad to find real bullets in the barrel, and used it to take out another agent, all the while moving towards one of the grappling hook lines. 

The blows they landed barely registered as sheer willpower got him through the rows of agents. Stab, shoot, punch, kick. The motions were painfully familiar. He felt a sharp pain in his side and he stumbled for just a second, which left him open to more bullets. Still, his desperation kept him going. Jamie couldn't return to HYDRA. He wouldn't. Hydra had brought him agony and suffering and a shattered mind. Hydra had ripped him apart and reassembled him into a merciless killer. It was time to show them exactly what they had created.

He had been hit with a few tranquilizing darts, but they weren’t enough to overpower his sped-up metabolism. He reached one of the cables and grabbed onto it with his Other Hand without hesitation. He quickly slid part of the way down before jumping off, soaring through the air for a few seconds before tucking and rolling. He jumped back to his feet effortlessly and took off down the street, shooting behind him and grinning when he heard the bullets tear through two of the agents in pursuit. 

Jamie pushed all thoughts out of his brain and kept running, feet pounding on the rough asphalt, lungs burning, even when he no longer heard the sound of feet behind him. He didn't stop until he saw a Walmart right ahead. Jamie slowed down enough to push through the door without breaking it (besides the spiderweb crack that formed from his Other Arm, but he ignored that). He tucked the gun into his waistband before staggering through the aisles, ignoring the stares and muttering. He pulled his cap down further and made sure not to expose his face to any cameras. He grabbed three rolls of gauze, a sewing kit, disinfectant, and two bottles of the strongest vodka he could find. He dropped it all onto the conveyor at one of the check-outs. He had to lean against the station when a wave of dizziness from the blood loss hit him hard.

“Jesus, dude, are you okay?” the clerk asked. “Woah, you’re bleeding, sir. Like, a lot.” The teen- Damien, according to his nametag- swallowed. “Do you need me to call 911?”

“No,” Jamie said forcefully. “It’s not as bad as it looks. Just fuckin’ hurry up before I bleed out.”

Damien picked up his pace, scanning each item as quickly as he could manage. “Cash or card?”

Jamie reached into a pocket and withdrew the last stack of (now slightly bloody) cash from the ATM and slammed it onto the counter. Damien flinched slightly but accepted it. The teenager counted it out, eyes growing wider with each bill. 

“Keep the change,” Jamie growled, already beginning to limp towards the back of the store, bag of purchases in hand.

“But, sir, this is at least three hundred dollars!” Damien called, but Jamie ignored him. He needed to stop the bleeding as soon as possible, or he would pass out and someone would call an ambulance and it would all be downhill from there. He made it all the way to the men’s restroom and locked the door behind him before he collapsed.

“Ah, fuck,” Jamie muttered as he emptied the plastic bag and started unwrapping the supplies. His hands were fumbling and it took him longer than it should’ve. He eased off his jacket and shirt, which were both stuck to his skin from the dried blood, and sighed. The initial shot had merely grazed his skin, as well as the second. The third was lodged in his metal arm, but the fourth bullet was still in his shoulder. He could see the glint of metal in the wound. Jamie quickly scanned the wound to make sure he wouldn’t end up doing even more damage before yanking the bullet out with a strangled yelp. He unwrapped the gauze and tore off three pieces. One was bunched up and placed under the graze on the back of his shin, and the other two were used to apply pressure to the wounds on his side and shoulder. He sat like that for exactly two minutes and thirty four seconds, fighting back nausea and intense pain the entire time. He knew the serum running through his veins helped his blood clot faster, so when he finally removed the gauze, the bleeding had almost stopped.

Jamie took a long swig out of the first vodka bottle and dragged himself over to the bathroom wall so he could lean against it before using the disinfectant on all three major injuries. By the time he was finished, he had cursed in a total of seven different languages and bit his lip hard enough for it to bleed. After that, it was easy and relatively painless to sew up the injuries and wrap them up with gauze. Once he was done, Jamie let out a long breath. The pain was still very much present, and he was still woozy from losing so much blood, but he had patched himself up and done all he could. Well, almost.

Jamie stared at the bullet lodged in his Other Arm. It was supposed to be bulletproof, but he wouldn’t be surprised if they had invented bullets that could pierce its outer shell and cause just enough damage to debilitate it. He tried to move his pinky and ring finger, but nothing happened, just like when he had tried earlier. The bullet must have destroyed some of the inner workings. He couldn’t feel the pain of the bullet- his Other Arm's technology wasn’t sophisticated enough- but he could feel that the technology inside was damaged. He was faced with yet another choice: rip it out and hope it wouldn’t cause any further harm, and spend the rest of his foreseeable future unable to move either finger, or finally return to Steve and enlist the help of Steve’s friend, Tony Stark: brilliant engineer, scientist, and creator of the Iron Man suit. He was confident Stark would be able to help him, but that didn’t mean he would want to. It would be a risk.

Jamie drained the rest of the vodka bottle and let his head rest on the bathroom wall he was sitting against. He had an increased metabolism, which meant he needed much stronger and much more alcohol to get intoxicated than normal humans. He still could though, especially if it was vodka and he desperately wanted to drink himself into oblivion. He finally gave in and did exactly that, chugging the entire bottle and savoring the way it burned down his throat and in his stomach, like his insides were on fire. He finally just let go and closed his eyes, drifting off on the shitty floor of a Walmart bathroom.

He stayed in the dark, murky state, not fully asleep but not conscious either. It was dreamless, something he was thankful for, but it was a light sleep and he woke up at the first noise, which happened to be an insistent knocking on the door. It took him longer than he liked to blink back into awareness, and even longer to get his bearings. The knocking returned, and he winced at how the sound grated at his skull. He pushed himself back to his feet and a multitude of aches made themselves known. Jamie groaned, bending back over to gather up his purchases and stuff them into his jacket pockets, gripping the bandages on his side to make sure the movement didn’t loosen them. He then splashed his face with cold water ( _that’s what you get for disobeying Soldier, shut the fuck up so we can start, you brought this upon yourself you little fucker-_ ) and unlocked the door. An older man with graying hair and a scowl pushed past him with a muttered “fucking junkies” and slammed the bathroom door, once again causing Jamie to cringe at the sound. 

He made his way back to the front of the store, grabbing a few items as he did- brush, scissors, shampoo, shaving implements, and a pair of sunglasses. He swiped the wallet of the older man who had called him a junkie and used his money to pay for everything, then left the wallet right by the doors and left. He walked down the strip mall until he reached a McDonalds, where he claimed the bathroom for a while.

Jamie stared at his reflection in the mirror. His hair was long, even tied back in the ponytail he’d put it in, and fell to his shoulder blades. He cut, washed, and combed it out, then tied it back once more, his head feeling lighter after losing eight inches of hair. Then he carefully applied the shaving cream and shaved off his beard. By the time he was finished, he looked and felt years younger. Jamie donned the baseball cap and sunglasses and emerged, hoping it was enough to throw off his pursuers just long enough for him to make a plan. He knew They expected him to build up his artillery and form a strategy, so Jamie knew he had to do what they least expected. He thought about it as he ordered three McMuffins and two black coffees. By the time he left the fast food restaurant, Jamie knew what he would have to do.

It was time to visit the city that housed the man he was avoiding.

Manhattan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next part in this series should be posted soon. Until then, please leave a comment- I practically live off them!- and have a great day!

**Author's Note:**

> There it is! I really love getting feedback, so please let me know what you think!  
> Have a lovely day, and I'll try to post the next chapter within the next few days!


End file.
